For the first eight years of my life, growing up it was just me and my mum. They were often hectic, and sometimes crazy, but mostly loving times.
Then Mum got really ill, and I went into the care system in England during the late 80s and early 90s. Being a mixed race girl didn’t exactly help matters either.
Before long I was placed with a foster family. From minute one, I decided I didn’t like them. They were nice and well-intentioned but a no-nonsense Christian family. Even back then, I thought these people were strange, especially when they were praying. Perhaps not surprisingly, the first scolding I received was for laughing while the family were praying before a meal.
The first time I got into trouble – and the first time I was ever smacked – came a few weeks into life with my new family. As I’ve already said, I’d decided I didn’t like this new home, so I ran away. Fortunately, the police found me next morning at a local bus station, and brought me back.
With the whole family sitting down and watching (they had a few children of their own too), I was lectured about my behaviour for what seemed an age.
Then the moment came. My foster mother ordered me to come and lie over her lap to be spanked.
When I refused – and physically fought back – the father came over and grabbed me. I was, and still am, quite a petite girl and he easily controlled me. He sat back down and put me in the spanking position over his own knee.
My foster dad began to smack the seat of my dress (which I hated wearing, by the way). After one or two smacks, the back of my dress rode up to reveal my panties, and the loss of a layer of protection for my bottom made the spanking hurt even more. That said, I think my main concern was the fact that my new brothers and sisters could see my pants on display.
This was the first of many smacked bottoms I received during my time in foster care.
Contributor: Shanti